Читать книгу Dangerous Goods - Sean Hill - Страница 15

FORTNIGHT

for Eric Black

Big Ben’s struck five again.

Why am I here at the Millennium Wheel,

the eye of London? I don’t want to queue-up—

won’t queue-up, but I’m here.

London is lousy with old buildings,

statues, parks, theaters, and museums.

The Tate Britain houses a piece by Richard Dadd—

a nineteenth century Brit.

Killed his father and lived a long life

in asylums painting fairy landscapes.

The soundtrack for this solitary sojourn

quiet and incidental like the puzzle piece

found face down when I disembarked at Heathrow—

a dreary oatmeal until turned over to reveal

no pattern, a solid green, unexpected—

hard to place like the tune the guy on the Tube whistled

now rattling my head or the dead pigeon I saw

from Westminster Bridge yesterday floating in the Thames

—wings slightly out somewhere mid-flap—either fluttering

down on sidewalk clutter or clapping away

from the progress of pedestrians—

flying on the waves of tour boats’ wakes.